


One Two

by buckysbears (DrZebra)



Series: Disability December 2017 [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Autistic Bobbi, Autistic Character, Gen, Stim Toys, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-14 03:32:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12998931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrZebra/pseuds/buckysbears
Summary: Bobbi is used to hiding parts of herself. May tries her best to show her she doesn't have to.





	One Two

**Author's Note:**

> anon prompt: how the team (lance/may, etc) helped autistic bobbi develop better coping mechanisms instead of banging her head etc? :)
> 
> cw for head hitting being discussed

“Why do you do that?”

Bobbi startles out of her thoughts when the voice cuts through her quiet mumbling. The words take longer to process than the sound does, so she knows it’s May before she knows what she’s said. Bobbi twists around on the couch to face her, poised in the doorway in a way that looks badass even in her pajamas and fuzzy winter socks.

“What?” Bobbi says, because it’s the first thing her brain can think to say, even though she’s understood the question by now.

May takes a few steps into the room so Bobbi doesn’t have to crane her neck. “Tap your head like that.”

Bobbi gives a placid smile, fingers tangling self-consciously in her lap. “Bad habit.”

“Doesn’t answer my question.”

May takes a seat on the chair facing the couch, obviously expecting an answer. And she is Bobbi’s SO, so an answer is probably mandatory.

“Um …” Bobbi’s eyes dart from object to object in the room, partly thinking through her answer, partly for avoidance. “Hunter doesn’t like it when I hit. So …”

“You hit your head a lot?”

She doesn’t mean to bite back so hard, “What are you going to do if I say yes?”

She doesn’t mean the little streak of defiant anger that flashes through her. She doesn’t mean to take the conversation so personally. But she’s been in this boat before, and she’s been left on the other side of the river enough times. She can’t help but be cautious. She can’t help but be angry.

“Nothing,” May says, and Bobbi wants to believe her.

This is May. She can believe her, right? Bobbi’s good at reading people. It took years of intense observation, but she’s good at it. But sometimes it seems like, around her, all people want to do is lie.

Bobbi swallows, and looks down at her hands. “I try not to. I’m getting better at it. When I was a kid I’d hit my head on walls, but hands make less noise. People are less likely to notice. But it upsets Hunter and … and I know it’s not good, I just …” She shrugs. “I try.”

“When do you do it?”

That makes Bobbi look up. She’s gotten the “why”. She’s gotten the “why” plenty of times. But the “when” is new to her.

Bobbi looks back down at her hands, pushing on her cuticles with her thumb nail. “When I’m overwhelmed. When things are just—” She pushes out a short sigh. “-too much.”

“The pain …” May starts, and Bobbi’s shoulders tense, “it helps you feel in control.”

Slowly, Bobbi nods. “Gives me something to focus on,” she adds. “Just helps me feel calmer. Like you said, it’s the control. I can’t control anything else that’s happening to me, but I can control that. It’s like … It’s like the need completely overwhelms me, sometimes. And I can’t even hear anything, or process anything else. It’s like this wave that comes over me, and that’s the only thing that satiates it. I don’t feel okay again until I hit. Even though I know it’s bad, and I’m not supposed to. It’s just so hard not to.”

When Bobbi’s eyes eventually wander upwards, May looks deep in thought. She’s about to speak when May nods, says, “Okay”, and is out the door without another word.

 Anxiety thrums in Bobbi’s gut. She trusts May, of course she does, but talking about any aspect of her autism always makes her feel raw. Exposed. Her first SO, the one who had pushed her to get diagnosed, had told her not to tell anyone else. And she’s come to realize that wasn’t the right move for her, but that instinct is still there. To lie and hide and not let anyone see it. See her.

Her hand comes up to her head without her even realizing it. She pulls it away, briefly twisting her fingers together, then biting down on her thumb until the urge to cry fades. When she’s sure it’s gone, she pulls her knees up, pushes her forehead into the bony caps, and hums as loud as she can until that drowns out everything her head is telling her.

-

“Here.”

The sound would have made Bobbi jump if her senses weren’t on high alert. She always becomes hyperaware of everything around her when she’s in the gym, getting in a good workout. Probably just fight or flight response. The extra adrenaline. In any case, she’d heard May’s distinctive footsteps from all the way down the hall.

Bobbi catches the punching bag and guides it to a still, then towels the sweat off her forehead. She tosses the cloth over one shoulder as she turns around, giving the opened box a curious look.

“What’s this?”

May just holds the box out further, so Bobbi takes it and wanders over to the nearest bench. She removes the air cushions from the box as she sits, and pulls out the item.

It’s a blue ball, about the size of her palm, with rubber spines covering it.

“It’s a massage ball,” May explains. “I figured it might give the same sort of sensory input as hitting for when you’re overwhelmed and you need something, but there’s no chance of hurting yourself. It’ll leave marks, but you’re not going to do any damage.”

Bobbi gives it an experimental squeeze, and then a tighter one. The pressure feels good against her palm, and it hurts a little, but not a lot. She closes both her hands around it and pushes down as hard as she can. There’s a bite to it, digging into her palms. It’s nice.

“I love it,” Bobbi says honestly. “Thank you.”

May nods, staring passively down at Bobbi’s hands as she rolls the ball back and forth between them.

“I don’t want you to feel like you’re going to get in trouble if you talk to me about this stuff,” May says after a moment, and Bobbi stills.

“Yeah,” she says.

“I know your old SO wasn’t great about it. But things are different now.”

Bobbi nods, not looking at her.

“You don’t have to hide this anymore.”

“I feel like I do,” Bobbi admits on a breath.

“Not with me.” And then, after a moment, “Not with family.”

Bobbi’s eyes dart up to her face. Not meeting her eyes, but scraping over her jaw to see if it’s tensed, examining the set of her lips, seeing if her nostrils are flared. She looks calm. She looks like she means it.

Bobbi just nods, not sure what to say. Out on a mission, she always has the right comment, knows just how to smile and laugh and make people think exactly what she wants of her. But with people who know her, people who matter … people she considers family … she’s lost more often than not. She knows how to play roles, but being honest leaves her on uneven footing.

May doesn’t seem to be expecting an answer, because she just gathers up the box and the packaging and leaves her with a, “Let me know how it is.”

Bobbi falters in the empty gym. It feels too quiet and too loud.

She gives the ball one more tight squeeze before leaving it on the bench with her water bottle and towel. She squeezes her earbuds into her ears, and turns on the sound of heavy rain. It’s just loud enough that she can barely hear her fists as they connect with the punching bag, a steady _one two, one two, one two_.

 _Family_ , Bobbi thinks. Her heart pounds.

_One two. One two. One two._


End file.
